


The fog

by Lord_Risley



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confusion, Drug Use, Feels, Guilt, M/M, This got a bit dark, Violence, deterioration of mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Risley/pseuds/Lord_Risley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Moriartys attack on John, Sherlock starts to struggle with the guilt and fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fog

The nightmares had been worse since the attack on John. Luckily, from a position of discretion, he suffered from them mostly during the daylight hours and more than anything they kept him awake rather than disturbing his sleep. John made small attempts to coax him to bed, to rest, to not start a new book on Critical mould analysis past midnight but it all fell upon deaf ears. Sherlock needed to stay awake with the haunting images that floated around his mind, the sounds that drifted to him through a silent room to remind him that he had nearly lost the only man who ever cared for him. Sometimes, if he let the memories push their way to the surface, they would overwhelm, consume him and fog the very air around him until he felt claustrophobic and choked. The real world would fade away until there was nothing but the nightmare left. 

The image of John would float in front of him, the image becoming slowly solid until he was there, back in the abandoned factory, John bound and bleeding before him. The only difference would be the awful realisation that it was his fault, his actions that had placed John in peril and ultimately caused his injuries. The ghost memory of John would float there quietly. The only sounds would be exaggerated ones that his mind invented to torture him with. Rats, that had never been at the scene, would scuttle noisily across the floor, occasionally over John's foot. There was the drip of the blood as it ran over his chest, making a path over his stomach, starting to pool at his hips before dripping noisily onto the floor where it formed a puddle. The smells became more vivid too, the sharp metallic tang of the blood mixing with the dry, dusty atmosphere of the large room. All in all...It was there to draw him in, to make him stay, to force the reality of the situation onto him repeatedly. His mind was waging a war against him and as someone whose most powerful tool had always been his genius...it was terrifying to Sherlock. 

A reason, there must be a reason. Chaos didn't exist without basis and certainly not in his own mind that was both chaotic and impeccably organised all at once. And so most nights he would make his excuses, fob John off with yet another barely plausible excuse and then he would wait. He had spent weeks doing everything from writing, to painting, to shouting at late night television to occupy his time but ultimately his mind fought back and it wouldn’t be long before the ghostly John would appear or perhaps it would the smell of the blood first, it presented in different way, invading his every sense. 

The drugs had become a regular thing nearly two weeks ago. A one off to get him through that one day, he had a case, real work to occupy him. Inspecting a body and John would appear on the face of the corpse. Looking at the murder weapon and the metallic smell again. He had to work, to feed his brain and so he'd turned to what he knew would work. He had felt better than he had in weeks, possibly months. The one off became once a day, once a day became twice a day because John must never know. He became adept at hiding the tells, working around Johns work shifts to make sure he looked sober and calm when it was needed. 

This evening he had taken refuge out on the balcony, the door firmly shut behind him. He was shirtless and barefoot, his grey jogging bottoms the only attempt at clothing. Perhaps the pinch of the cold could keep him awake but also clear his head. It was his fourth night without sleep and it was becoming a struggle and something a bit more sinister. The crumpled cigarette pack lay at his feet, something he would surely get chastised for when John woke up. His smoking was tolerated (barely) but he hardly thought a whole pack overnight would be looked upon very kindly. 

"Sherlock?" 

He whirled around but there was nobody there, nothing there. His head cocked to the side as he listened for the sound again but there was nothing but the wind catching around the building. 

"Sherlock!" 

The voice...It was more desperate than it had been before and it was John, definitely John. He flung the door open, running barefoot over the living room floor 

"Sherlock...help me" 

He ran faster, the knife clutched tightly in his right hand. If his mind had been his own, clear of the heaviness that insomnia brings, he'd of stopped to consider where the knife had come from. Had he stopped? Had it been there all along? 

"Sherlock. Please" 

John's voice was fading, becoming more desperate. Why couldn’t he move faster! The bedroom door banged open as his fist hit it, slamming into the wall and sending a spray of paint chips across the floor. There was no light in the room except for the moonlight that spilled through the window but it was enough. There he was, Moriarty, kneeling over John, /his/ John, hands on throat, squeezing tightly, there to finish what he started. Sherlock leapt, a feral scream coming from deep within that held all his worry, fear and anger. The knife sunk down, blade flashing in the pale light. There was such force behind it, the weight of a man driving it downwards, that Sherlock barely felt it pierce the flesh. He did however smell the blood, feel the spray upon his face. The fuzzy ghostly image disappeared and his mind became clearer. The fog lifted and the stark reality hit full force. 

John's mouth open and closed silently, His eyes were wide and blinking in shock, hands fluttering around the knife that was sunk into his chest. 

"J-John?"

**Author's Note:**

> Be kind. This was written for a specific story with specific characters Apologies Katie but I love our characters so much :)


End file.
